


Reclaim the Stage

by purplefury



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Found Family, Introspection, Mentions of Primrose's Backstory, Post-Canon, minor spoilers for postgame sidequest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefury/pseuds/purplefury
Summary: Primrose vows to dance, yet what’s a performance without passion? After everything, there’s no spark, no soul in her movements. A concerned H’aanit notices the change and takes matters into her own hands.(Written for Octopath Femslash Week 2020)
Relationships: Primrose Azelhart/H'aanit
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: Octopath Femslash Week 2020





	Reclaim the Stage

_“...I will keep dancing.”_

Primrose remembers those words, spoken with a wavering voice. She shrugged off the carefully-crafted armor around her heart beneath those trees. She still feels the breeze against her skin, the rustling of leaves, and brief glimpses of curious townsfolk. They knew not to disturb her as she stood over the tombstone, lamented, and scorned. After everything, the hollowness remains in her heart. Vengeance doesn’t quell the grief; she should’ve known this. She should’ve known after she struck the crows down, down, and down again.

She keeps dancing, yet it’s not the same, despite her friends’ encouragement. Grace and poise remains, but the movements lack soul. The fire in her heart remains dim, even now. 

H’aanit watches this development with concern, and she puts the pieces together. Primrose lacks a stage to call her own - at least, one devoid of painful memories. From what she understands, she danced to another’s rhythm, to deceive, to use. H’aanit doesn’t blame her for surviving. Yet, she understands a hopeful part of Primrose lies dormant within her heart, waiting for the right time to be free.

The right time calls for the right place. Fortunately, King Khalim owes her a favor.

What begins as a humble pursuit of the arts leads to the construction of a grand amphitheatre - free of charge and free for all. He hopes it’ll be a wondrous sight for visitors old and new, as well as an eventual landmark of Marsalim. Dance requires no particular setting; one only needs the ground beneath them. If there’s a space to exist, there’s a space to dance through whatever means.

Until construction is complete, the King proposes a grand outdoor stage for Primrose’s grand performance. Situated in the town square among flowing streams and lanterns, he hopes the ambience will suffice. He’s ever grateful for the travelers’ aid.

But H’aanit is H’aanit, and she insists that the townsfolk also take part in the festivities. King Khalim merely laughs. If there’s one fact that represents Marsalim, it’s the fact that the people know how to have a good time.

Aware that H’aanit won’t accept ‘no’ as her answer, Primrose obliges. The travelers agree to help, hoping that Primrose may, one day, reminisce with a smile.

* * *

It’s one practice session out of many, and Primrose sees that H’aanit is trying her best.

“Ah-!”

Rehearsal stops, and H’aanit backs away. It’s the second time she’s accidentally stepped on Primrose’s toes, and she only grows more flustered. Her eyes don't stare at the ground, however. It’s progress.

“Forgiven me. I haveth much work to do,” H’aanit admits. “But for thine sake, I shall practicen all evening - mornings, as well - shouldst I needest the time.”

“That’s… kind of you,” Primrose says. “But you won’t do well without rest. Don’t worry - we’ll keep practicing together.”

Together. As proud as she performs, she rarely shares her prowess with another, let alone on the stage. She entertained the idea in the past - duets and shared victories - yet the bastard demanded that she perform alone. Only _she_ could attract the best patrons, ones who lined his pockets while leaving the rest to dry. She earned herself a growing hatred and further isolation. No room for friendship when she was his golden goose, his _kitten_. 

Yusufa once asked how she addressed him without disgust in her voice. Oh, there was disgust, all right. It was a minuscule feeling compared to years of building scorn, rage, rebellion. It pained her to mask the feelings until they consumed her, leaving hollowness in their wake. There was only one laugh amidst that darkness, one that echoed across the sands when he finally danced for her.

It was a terrible show, in the end.

“Primrose?”

A gentle voice interrupts the thoughts, and she notes the worry in H’aanit’s eyes. She understands that it’s genuine.

“...That obvious, hm?” 

H’aanit merely nods, extending an arm toward her. Primrose accepts the gesture, leaning into the comfort of her embrace. Her heart beats quicker from the day’s practice, and she focuses on the sound. It’s nice, and more importantly, it’s safe. H’aanit always helps her feel safe.

“Perhaps 'tis time for a rest,” H’aanit follows through with action. Primrose lets her lead them to the chairs in the rehearsal area. King Khalim is gracious enough to provide them the space with no strings attached, nothing but best wishes. Maybe he's one of the nobles she'll come to respect.

Primrose watches the others prepare for the stage, from Olberic’s effortless lifts to Ophilia’s surprised sounds upon this lift. Further away, Alfyn acts at the audience as he gauges the others’ magical stage effects. A steady warmth leads to a gentle breeze, and the breeze turns into a chilling wind. A story told through the seasons, as Primrose requested prior to these rehearsals. 

“A little more… little less… yeah! Just like that!”

An enthusiastic audience, he is, and Primrose smiles at the sight. She hopes the townsfolk of Marsalim are receptive to their performance. The group insists that this is Primrose’s stage, yet she thinks otherwise. They helped her reach this point in her journey, one where she can start to heal at her own pace. They’re all essential to her story, and it would be a crime if she didn’t ask them to share the stage. 

She’s so grateful for them. 

“How dost thou feelen about this?” H’aanit gestures toward the group.

A direct question, yet it withholds no feigned concern. She’s grown used to facades from others and from herself, yet H'aanit's no liar. She's not very good at it, either.

“Seeing everyone work so hard for my sake, and especially you… it's a lot to take in. I know dancing’s not easy for you, but know that I appreciate your efforts.”

A soft laugh. 

“ ‘Tis strange… I hath considered mine habits during a hunt. Silent steps, the pull of the bowstring… such motions comen with ease. They carryen a ‘rhythm’, as thou calleth this, but to followeth another? And to the sound of music? How odd.”

“That’s one way to think about it,” Primrose says. “I suppose dance is its own hunt, whether you strike the viewer’s heart, or strike them down yourself.”

Much time has passed since those dark days, ones that left memories she must now carry alongside her shield of faith. Will the pain fade with each step she takes? 

It’s a path she continues to walk.

“Still, give yourself more credit. You’re willing to make mistakes in front of others. It’s hard to do.”

“Thou speakest of thineself, Primrose.”

When H’aanit addresses her by name, she knows that she should listen.

Making mistakes is hard. Making mistakes means weakness, and she can’t show weakness. For years, she couldn’t, as she was punished for it. She struggled to rehearse in front of others, not wishing to invoke their wrath or scorn. Yet, these people so close to her heart don’t lead her astray. They never play with her feelings like puppet masters bearing the strings. They check in, help her feel comfortable, safe, and loved. They may tease, sure, yet they don’t judge - only encourage.

With growing ease does Primrose fumble in front of them, knowing that there’s nothing wrong with mistakes. They’re essential along the path toward improvement, and it’s a path she no longer needs to walk alone.

“Yeah… you’re right. I’m trying my best.”

“ ‘Tis true,” H’aanit assures. “So long as thou may danceth for thine sake, and not for the sake of others, ‘tis progress. We aren here to catcheth thee, if thou needest the aid.”

They’re here, they’re always here. For her. It means so much.

And so, she’ll try her best, for her own sake.

* * *

The days pass, and each rehearsal yields better results. No stumbling, no stepping on toes as H’aanit performs without error. Musicians play their instruments to Primrose’s rhythm, strings smooth and sharp to highlight the leaps and twirls. Soon, the travelers add their arcane talents to the ensemble for full immersion.

Everything’s coming together. At one point, Primrose’s intensity alerts the vigilant Linde, who sniffs her friend with genuine concern. She merely laughs and pets her head, assuring her that all is well, but that she appreciates the gesture. Primrose thanks everyone for giving up their time, and they insist that this is time they’re glad to give.

Finally, the main event arrives... and the nerves threaten to take hold.

Primrose listens to the sounds outside the palace guest room. Cheers and applause come in bursts, and she presumes that the audience waits until the end to express their joy. Anything is better than leering eyes and lascivious gestures, ones she must ignore for the sake of her dance. It’s an ingrained habit, even before the punishment that followed her mistakes. If there’s pain, she can’t show it on their face. One must act like a doll - unmoving, prodded, and left to gather dust - or in one case, sand. 

She’ll never forget.

Ah. Here she goes again, thoughts running rampant mere moments before the show. It’s another ingrained habit, more cunning in its ability to grapple her senses.

Thoughts flit to the amphitheatre in Everhold, pretentious and mocking. She bears no resentment toward the workers, but rather, the puppet master who pulled the last strings long ago. Primrose pushes the memories far away, as she tends to do with the pain. The past never leaves, but here in Marsalim, she can dance to her own rhythm. No masters (no, monsters) can string her along anymore. This is her story, and she will tell it on her own terms.

A knock on the door breaks her out of troubling thoughts. Out of habit, Primrose wears her mask of facade.

“Come in.”

Therion enters and quietly shuts the door behind him. His attire is elegant, all thanks to the local artisan’s handiwork. The loose fabric and muted purple covers what he wishes to cover, for now. As long as he’s comfortable, Primrose doesn’t question it.

“You look nice,” she says.

“Don’t I always,” Therion turns his forearm to examine the gold embroidery in the fabric. “Worth the occasion, I guess.”

Primrose hums and faces the mirror once more. Mixing a black substance in a small dish, her hand shakes as she brings the brush’s tip to her eyelid. She sighs after drawing a crooked line, wipes the paint off, and tries again. A frustrated sound leaves her lips, and she sets the brush down.

“Need some help?” Therion hears the tap of wood against the table.

She hesitates. To accept help means to accept weakness, and she can’t be weak, not after-

No. It’s not the betrayal in Noblecourt, the bitter cold of Stillsnow, or the mockery of Everhold. They’re in the desert, yet unlike the oppressive air of that loathsome tavern, the people of Marsalim welcome her with open arms. They even view her as a hero of their fair city.. Her past self would balk at such an idea. Tainted hearts, thorned and guarded, could only hurt others. Slowly, she experiences a life beyond survival, learning to accept help from the friends who wish to see her thrive.

Here she is again, letting her thoughts run in circles. Something small like cosmetics proves a formidable foe, yet Therion, warm beneath a once-cold front, offers to fight in her stead.

“That... would be nice,” Primrose sighs, aware of her trembling hands.

Therion nods and retrieves the brush and dish from the table. Scanning Primrose’s face, he notes that one eyelid is painted with a pointed end. 

“Guess I can add this to my endless list of talents,” he says casually, stirring the mixture with the brush handle to protect the bristles. “The others didn’t mind when I put this on them. They even told me that they liked it."

Primrose lets out a soft laugh, and it seems to lift Therion’s spirits. They know to share praise aloud, when it comes to him. 

“Anyway, just wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh? So considerate.” 

“Trying my best,” Therion shrugs. “Mind if I put a hand on your face for this?”

Primrose nods, and Therion leans forward. Shaping the bristles into a narrow point, he rests a gentle hand against her forehead to steady himself. It’s quiet, save for the cheering outside the palace. Therion paints with delicate strokes, matching the other eye closely. He doesn’t dare disappoint Primrose with subpar application. This is her night, and she deserves the best.

A final hum, and Therion pulls away to admire his handiwork. “That should do it.”

Primrose reaches for the small mirror on her table and analyzes his work. All together, it’s a smooth line, pointed at the end just like the other eye.

“You really do have the skill for this,” Primrose checks a final time and places the mirror down. “Did you learn before?”

“Something like that,” he gestures at the scar hidden beneath his hair. “Tried to hide it when it first healed. Later on, you could only tell if you looked up close. Never let anyone do that, of course.”

“And then we came along, hm?”

A near-snort. “Bunch of fools and a snow leopard got through to me.”

Primrose understands his path of healing well. They were similar from the start: guarded, distrusting, daggers sheathed and ready to draw blood. Victims of circumstance, manipulated and left to trust no one but themselves (and even that proved difficult). Still, she noticed the light struggling past his guarded heart while believing her own was beyond help. 

Now, they learn together. The world can always use more light.

“Need anything else?” Therion asks on his way out. He wants to give Primrose space to prepare, as he often does.

“Hm… can you ask H’aanit to come over?” Primrose looks away as she speaks, her tone lacking its usual punch.

Therion notes the softness (and the blush), and he presses no further. “Will do.”

He shuts the door behind him, and Primrose lets out a breath she didn’t know she held. The nerves threaten to conquer her tonight. It’s not the dance itself - she knows the steps like the back of her hand. It’s not H’aanit, either. She’s practiced for her sake, even dancing with the others when she needed time alone. That’s H’aanit in all her strength: selfless, gentle, and braver than she cares to admit. Pursuing the unknown is part of her livelihood, while Primrose dances for… well, she’ll figure it out tonight.

A series of knocks signals the very topic of her thoughts.

“ ‘Tis me.”

Primrose turns, and she’s speechless from the sight. Accustomed to the muted beige of H’aanit’s hunter garb, this boldness strikes her heart in a certain way. Not unlike an arrow striking its prey, yet this arrow seeks no harm. The attire is quite simple in appearance to accentuate her best features - the ideal choice, truly. Never mind the glimmering hairpiece or her painted eyes, but her _muscles-_

H’aanit’s always beautiful in her eyes, but the H’aanit in front of her now? 

Fuck.

“Please sayeth something,” H’aanit comments, somewhat self-conscious. She’s unaccustomed to such extravagance, but the occasion calls for the best. 

“Oh! I, ah, was just distracted,” Primrose gathers whatever thoughts remain in her head. H’aanit’s beauty chases them away, and they don’t return. She takes a second respectful look at H’aanit, appreciating the rarity of the sight. How endearing it is to see her flustered state, from reddened cheeks to the eyes that avoid her own. A closer look, and Primrose notes the smooth, sharp lines painted on her eyelids - a familiar style she also wears.

“Did Therion help you out?” she gestures with a hand.

“Indeed. ‘Twas a challenge to maken the line sharp. Ah, he hath asked for thine reaction to mine appearance, if thou canst accepten his request.”

Of course he’d want to know that. Therion’s observant, and he knows what she likes to see. Regarding H’aanit, however…

“Do _you_ like it?”

There’s little hesitation in response. “Aye, very much.”

“That’s what matters, then,” Primrose affirms. “But I’ll play his game. Tell him he’s done a lovely job - I mean it. He should be proud.”

“Then I shall passeth the message along,” H’aanit smiles, pleased to share gratitude whenever she can. Primrose’s eyes are painted more heavily for the stage, and while her eyes are naturally striking, this isn’t the trait that stands out.

“I noticen thou hast adorned thine face before thine hair. ‘Tis not usual for thee.”

Sharp, as always. Primrose nods and combs through the hair with her fingers. “I… it’s because I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh?”

Reaching toward the desk, she passes a comb and leather hair band to H’aanit.”

“Could you braid it? Just like yours? Maybe if we match, then...”

If they matched, then it would ease the nerves, the fluttering in her chest. If they matched, they can share this special moment together. But she’s overthinking, isn’t she? It’s only hair. It’s not that special. There are more pressing matters to attend to, and-

“Of course.”

Direct and assuring. When she speaks in that tone, no doubts dare to challenge H’aanit.

Primrose closes her eyes as H’aanit recreates her signature braid with practiced ease. Gentle hands separate wavy hair into even sections.

“I wonderen how thine hair doth not hitten thee in the eyes,” she says while braiding. “Thou danceth with such strength, after all.”

“Believe me, it happened a lot. Control your movements right, and it won’t hurt too much.” She realizes what she said and quells H’aanit’s concern. “Don’t worry - I happen to like the hairstyle, but it’s a special night.”

Primrose’s heart flutters as she sees H’aanit’s face light up. She doesn’t realize her charm in simply being herself.

“Then I shall not faileth thee.”

Without question, Primrose knows how H’aanit treats her with utmost care. The kind words only enhance the bliss of this shared moment. There’s no harsh pulling, no tugging, no pain. She almost expects it… but those days are behind her. She hopes they’ll stay far away. 

H’aanit secures the braid, and the task is complete. The ends of her hair don’t tickle Primrose’s back as they normally do. No need to check in the mirror, for she trusts her handiwork.

“Thank you.”

H’aanit speaks as if she was awaiting those words. “Nay, I thanken thee. Mine heart feeleth warm at the sight... and I shall repayeth thee on the stage.”

Primrose almost wants to laugh. There’s nothing to repay after all the kindness she has given. There’s no expectations, no inherent pressure to return it. H'aanit simply delivers, and it reaches her every time.

Speaking of time, a call from beyond the door signals their cue. 

“Ah! The time hath carried us away,” H’aanit hastily checks her attire once more. “Letten us be off.”

With H’aanit by her side, things will be all right.

* * *

“Phew, we’re just in time!” Tressa ushers them toward the others, who are clustered together for a familiar prayer. She boasts her own elegant attire and can’t help but admire herself.

“You should’ve seen my face! Didn’t believe it was me at first, but hey, think I can get used to this!”

Primrose feels a sense of pride at the admission. Her tips prove effective for the open-minded Tressa, whose enthusiasm lends itself well to trying new things. It’s as if she makes up for the years she lost; she shares her knowledge, and her friends listen. So simple in hindsight, yet even now, it takes effort to reinforce the belief. 

It’s nice. Being welcomed with open arms is even nicer. Everyone’s well-dressed for the occasion, and there’s warmth in their eyes. They didn’t have to do this for her, truly…

As with any performance, she senses that some are more nervous than others. It’s the anticipation, all the fumbles and flourishes that lead toward this moment.

Warm light surrounds the group as Ophilia offers her prayers, asking the heavens to bless their evening. She doesn’t discount their work, of course, and she expresses utmost pride in their efforts. No matter the results, they should feel accomplished. Everyone passes along kind words and wishes for the performance. 

Primrose notices the little moments - how Therion allows gentle hands against his back, how she allows the same. She feels H’aanit rub circles against her in silent reassurance, and the hand moves down to rest against her waist. Meanwhile, Linde makes her way toward the center for what she believes is a grand hug. They all provide hugs, of course; Linde can never receive too many hugs. Primrose vows to give many after the show.

Heart full of gratitude and warmth, she’s as ready as she can be.

* * *

It’s time.

A pair of musicians wish Primrose the best of luck as they leave the stage, which seems to glow from the surrounding lights. The simple construction allows the performers to shine, and shine, she will.

With a final stretch of her arms, she takes the stage, her back facing the audience. The crowd stills in anticipation. 

Music begins, and a ball of fire materializes near Primrose. She raises her hand, palm facing upward as if she’s the flame bearer herself. She knows who controls the flame - a shadow in the night, a heart filled with light. The flame follows her carefree steps, like a child playing with a friend. She had none, really. Such was her upbringing in Noblecourt: the tapping of shoes against tile, the laughter… the lack of one with whom she shared it. Her father made countless enemies and rarely let anyone close enough to build a bond.

Well, there was one.

On cue, the flame extinguishes as Primrose reaches for it, for the last semblance of an innocent youth. It’s gone. 

A breeze blows, and murmurs fill the air. Heads turn as rustling effects simulate autumn leaves drifting through the air. When nature prepares for sleep, she prepares for sorrow.

String musicians play an ominous tune, and the veins on Primrose’s arms glow with purple light. The dark energy extends past her arms, forming a pair of wide sleeves that resemble a river’s flow. Smooth and supple, like silk. Like water. 

Water soothes, yet water also surges. A raging torrent, it cuts through its path, striking down whatever can’t withstand its force. She channels her lost youth after that fateful day, wandering and searching for answers. Purple sleeves dart out with a flick of her wrist and arc through the air with an arm’s rotation. 

Both body and mind wandered in circles at the time, and shadows consumed her. She portrays this with a dark embrace, sleeves obscuring her face.

The winds chill, and townsfolk rub their arms from the sensation. Snow flurries fall, manipulated with skilled hands out of the crowd’s sight. With the coming of winter comes her aggressive movements: sleeves cut through the sky, feet pound the ground, and darkness nearly prevails. She channels the bitter cold from those years spent in the oppressive heat, under an oppressive hand. Nothing but lies among sand; nothing but one lying upon sand. 

She’ll never forget.

Strings intensify to match the mood, heavy and somber, attuned to her rhythm. She obscures her face once more, for darkness protects her, shields her. No one shall come close.

Old wounds sting less with time, and new memories bloom in their place, slowly filling the cracks in her heart. The instruments slow, drawing attention to Primrose as the dark sleeves slowly dissipate. She breathes deeply, remaining still. 

The audience doesn’t know the extent of her feelings, of course, but the others do. Primrose can feel their gazes upon her, giving her strength. (And strong, she is.) She senses Yusufa’s presence in the stars and hopes her dear friend is at peace.

Music shifts into a warmer tone, and icy winds still. Behind Primrose, a familiar figure, strong yet gentle, lifts another. A golden light emanates from a scepter and separates into one, two, eight glowing orbs. There’s a ninth in the center to honor the best leopard companion. The orbs dance in the air, controlled by a practiced hand. The air grows warm around Primrose, chasing away the bitter cold, chasing away the pain. It’s healing, and it’s hope.

When Primrose moves, she portrays hesitance through her movements, wary of letting hope inside a once-hollow heart. Yet, everyone has provided hope through their company and kindness. There’s one, in particular, one so strong and reassuring. 

It’s her cue. The music swells, and H’aanit arrives. Hands clasp, and they exchange nods.

H’aanit, in particular, gives her so much hope for the future. They can start in the present.

There’s no need for lightning when H’aanit’s mere presence sends sparks through her veins. Her heart’s aflame with admiration and, for a moment, the crowd disappears in her mind. It feels like it’s just the two of them.

Initial hesitance turns into confidence with every twirl, and Primrose feels a rush of pride at the emboldened H’aanit. She knows how hard she worked to learn this once-foreign skill, how hard she practiced for her sake. Reputation matters little, as Primrose revels in the moment. It’s her stage tonight, yet it’s one she shares with those closest to her heart.

As the music builds for the finale, Primrose anticipates the motions when she feels a hand rest against her lower back. H’aanit’s eyes ask a silent question, as they often do when checking in with her.

_Shall we?_

They shall. Some opportunities are best claimed, in the present.

Primrose catches the glimpse of a smirk as H’aanit pulls her close, so close. The enamored crowd, watching with respectful silence, bursts into applause at the sight. Ah, love! Joyous cheers grow louder as Primrose smiles against H’aanit’s lips. It’s the final touch that engraves this blissful night into her memory. 

The cheers fade into the background of her mind, though she swears she can hear Alfyn’s respectful hollering from a distance. Many emotions rush through her head: longing, elation, desire, and warmth. Even in the midst of their passionate dance - now a passionate kiss - H’aanit asks for consent. H’aanit always delivers.

She’s so happy.

When Primrose pulls away to catch her breath, she laughs at the wonderful sight of H’aanit’s flushed cheeks. All flustered, because of her! She takes pride in this victory when H’aanit claims her own, albeit gently. A thumb brushes against the corner of her eye, pulling away to reveal a black smudge. Ah, she’s… crying?

The next brush against her face lingers as H’aanit tries to halt the tears in their place. For once, Primrose cares little about maintaining perfection. There’s no sorrow in her heart, no pain. Just relief. She shared her journey on her own terms. The stars shine upon her - no, them.

The music ends with their embrace, and there’s nothing but cheers. Primrose gestures for her friends to join them on stage, and they bow together. Laughter melds with the joy in the air, and Primrose thinks that, finally, things may be all right. There’s still time to pave her path, and with a gentle light to guide the way, no one can stop her.

**Author's Note:**

> [after the show]
> 
> therion: so how did she react  
> h’aanit: she hath sweateth in gay  
> therion: good
> 
> _____
> 
> Fun fact: I used to perform with a dance team! I had fun bringing some of that knowledge here for a more personal touch. I also based the water sleeves (shuixiu) off the ones used in traditional Chinese dance and opera. It was nice to incorporate my heritage, as well!
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/purplefury_)! And thanks again to @8pathfemslash for hosting this event!


End file.
